Why does chick lit have such slow and sometimes, occasionally boring and draggy build-ups to the fun bits and then when things get mighty interesting, it all ends in a matter of pages often not even worthy of a chapter? It’s a letdown at times really. What if I were some sad deluded girl down on her luck and out of love who needs a holding hand or yellow-bricked road to help me out of this slump. Of course, it’s insane and sad enough that I would be relying on a fictitious novel to have a clue as to how to figure out my own life (now isn’t that what self-help books are for?).
But really. I will admit, I have sometimes turned to the books to figure out what to do next. All those stories of women who have been cast out of their jobs, suddenly, and their boyfriends or husbands or fiances who suddenly decided to move on to the next shiny, pretty, young thing; they’ve imbued me with a sense of self-confidence and belief that if they can do it, so can I. But the books now, maybe it’s just me, I feel somewhat letdown. I want to know what happens next. It doesn’t matter if it’s a month or even a week. But give me a little sliver of hope of the good things that come after all the hard work. Even disjointed happily-ever-afters would do.
But no. Three or if I’m lucky, five pages and then the end. Why do writers rush the end so much? Have they lost the inspiration? The drive? The build-up to the exciting bits often feel like some self-absorbed pseudo-biography of their lives which I’m sorry, am not really interested in.
Then again, this could be the main reason why fantasy has always been my number one.
Gaiman is an exception. That man, is the stuff all novels should be made of. Chick lit or not.
